


Autumn Adventures

by oddsnends



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddsnends/pseuds/oddsnends





	1. Camping Catastrophe

It’ll be fun, you’re going to love it!

Bjorn’s words did little to comfort and warm you at the current moment.

“Bjorrrnn.” You groan, the chilly wind whips around you causing your teeth to shake and chatter. “How much longer do we need to do this?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Bjorn holds out his hand, offering to pull you up to stand beside him. “Not long, we’re almost to the top.” He replies effortlessly.

Slowly climbing up the hill, you release his hand and continue to shiver. This had to be the worst idea he’s ever had. Your first weekend away, together, and your blond god talked you into camping.

Sounds lovely, until you remember that it is autumn and the evening temperatures aren’t even reaching the plus side of the thermometer. Bjorn said it would be fun to hike, canoe, and explore the local nature reserve together. What he failed to mention was how you would freeze to death before morning.

Some where above the trees surrounding you, there was a sunset to end all sunsets. At the top of the mountain, Bjorn insisted would be the best place to watch. Why were you still listening to him?

“Are you okay?” Bjorn calls behind when he realizes you are no longer close.

“I’m fine.” You call back, trying your best not to sound annoyed.

Ahead of you, looking flawless in his lumberjack attire, Bjorn frowns and slides down the small dirty bank.

“Come on.” He wraps you in his arms, his body is like a heavenly furnace against you. “We can go back to the camp site.”

“But the sunset.” You point upward.

“There will be others,” Bjorn shrugs, taking your shaking hands in his. Rubbing his hands over yours, warmth seem to spread through your entire body. Thawing like a cold day giving into the warm Spring sunshine.

“Are you sure?” You cock your brow and sniffle, the end of your nose cold and dripping.

Bjorn nods. “Yes, now come.” He starts down the hillside.

Sunsets from a mountain top were romantic, no doubt, unless one half of that party was slowly freezing. Bjorn carefully navigated your back down, the descend back to camp didn’t feel like it took as long - thank gods.

Opening the truck door, Bjorn ushered you in, turning the key to start the heater. Kissing your cheek, his beard scratching you lightly, he spoke. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

With that he shut the door and disappeared. Lovely! Here you were, alone, while Bjorn was out in the wildness doing who knows what. Your mind automatically assumes the worst, bears, cliffs, psychopathic hikers…Nervous you sit daring not to move.

If he isn’t back in half an hour…You sigh in relief when Bjorn reappears with an arm load of wood. Poking your head out the window, you ask if he needs help.

“You stay put, I’ll make a fire and then we can get real cozy in our tent.” Bjorn instructs with a wink.


	2. It’s the Great Pumpkin, Ubbabe

Unseasonably warm for October, you swiped the back of your hand over your forehead, the sun was beating down and there was no sign of relief anytime soon. You should have dressed better for the occasion. Despite your enthusiasm for “sweater weather” and cute boots.

Ubbe had the right idea when he’d left the house in layers, a tshirt under his favourite green hoodie. His hair tucked under a worn baseball cap, you smiled watching him carefully pick his way through the rows of giant pumpkins.

Men, women, and children scattered everywhere made it a tad difficult to know exactly where the niece and nephews were, but Ubbe had his eye on the three of them.

“What about this one?” He towered among the rows, pointing to the almost glowing pumpkin at his feet. Ubbe felt that he’d already found you the perfect pumpkin, almost half an hour ago.

Joining Ubbe, you frown at the pumpkin sitting in the patch. You were making this far more difficult than it needed to be. Ubbe had found hundreds of pumpkins that looked perfect, but you found a reason to turn down each one.

He was beginning to think you were doing this in order to prolong your afternoon.

“I don’t know.” Your brow furrows and your nose crinkled. You were adorable when judging the beauty of a pumpkin.

“We’ve been through here fourteen times.” Ubbe teased. Breaking his gaze to scan the patch for the kids. “That’s far enough.” His deep voice rumbled out to Bjorn’s children. Ubbe had brought them along to get their own carving pumpkins.

“It has to be perfect.” You insist glancing up to spot the kids playing a few feet away. They’d found their pumpkins almost immediately. Ubbe had found his a few moments ago and that left you.

“Okay then,” Ubbe gave in with a brief smirk, “what makes the perfect pumpkin?”

“Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not. I want to help you find the perfect pumpkin, so, help me out.” Ubbe urges. “Is it colour? Shape? Smell? Texture?”

Silly is how you were going to sound with this reply. “None of those, actually. When I see it, I’ll just…know.” You shrug.

“Well, then, take your time.” Ubbe kisses your cheek. “I’m taking the kids through the corn maze. If you don’t have the perfect pumpkin by the time we’re done, then we can stop at the other farm on the way home.”

Waving them off, you watched Ubbe and the three children disappear into the stalks of meticulously shaped corn. They’d be a good hour at least, perhaps more if they were relying on Ubbe’s sense of direction.

You continue to wander through the patch, each pumpkin looking more and more disappointing. This is silly, surely, somewhere here there is the perfect pumpkin. Dirt puffs under your boots, walking through the rows. To the left, the odd shaped, bright orange beacon of hope.

Hoisting the pumpkin up, you smile triumphantly and take it to the stand. Handing over your cash, you’re interrupted by Ubbe and the children rejoining you.

“Is that it?” Ubbe asks with a broad smile. You nod eagerly. “What do ya know, the first one I picked.”


	3. An Apple a Day

Rickety and dilapidated the ancient wooden ladder stood against the decrepit tree, Hvitserk puffed out his chest and took a step toward the ladder. Why did all of the good apples have to be at the top of the damn tree? One foot on the bottom, he glanced down at his worn blue converse expecting the wooden contraption to give way the second he put his weight onto it.

“Hvits.” Your voice calls his attention. Hands on your hips, you glare at him. “What do you think you’re doing? Get off of that, you’ll kill yourself.”

“But the pie, I can’t make it with worm ridden apples.” He pouts, clutching the ladder, one foot still on and one off. Nobody took their pies as seriously as Hvitserk. He spent hours perfecting the perfect award winning apple pie. During fair season he would sit in the kitchen trying to make each one better than the last.

“No pie is worth ending up in a body cast.” 

A body cast is exactly where Hvitserk is going to end up, if he doesn’t come off that ladder. The worn gray wood creaks and you wince as it foreshadows a sudden demise, whether it is one for itself or Hvitserk is unclear.

“I know what I am doing.” Hvitserk insists moving to avoid getting his hair caught in a crinkled branch. “Sigurd and I climbed these trees all the time, when we were kids.”

Back when they were considerably smaller no doubt.

“Hvits, I don’t want to see you hurt. We came to have a nice afternoon out, going to the emergency room is not what I’d call a nice afternoon.” You continued to watch in the same manner you would a train wreck about to happen.

Stretching toward the higher branches, Hvitserk grunts, his tongue stuck between his teeth in sheer concentration, nimble fingers extend and pluck a prize of an apple. A triumphant puff of breath and Hvitserk goes for another.

Skillfully he manages six or seven more before returning to the ground. Both feet safe on the earth beside you, he proudly shows you the apples in his basket.

“See, nothing to worry about.” He beams, kissing your cheek.

“You got lucky that time.” You pout and take the basket from him.

“And when my pies are winning all of the awards, who is going to be the lucky one then?” He wiggles his brows at you, green eyes full of mischief.

“The gym where I leave all of my money, because you’ve made my ass three sizes bigger with pies?”

“Please,” Hvitserk snickered, nudging you with his hip. “Your ass is perfect and besides, who needs a gym when you have me? You know all of that baking and winning makes me horny.”

Onward to the next tree, Hvitserk marches with a smile on his face, leaving you to trail behind. Pleased with his comments, he expertly scurries up the next ladder. What a cheeky little brat.


	4. A Monster Surprise

This morning broke to a gorgeous, crisp day, the kind where the autumn colours were vivid in a way that made the world look like Bob Ross himself had painted it for the world to see. A deep indigo sky taunting bad weather, if there was such a thing this time of year?

Sunshine, brilliant and vibrant colours were all whisked away in favour of muted grays, black, and other dull and boring colours that this haunted house boasted. Sigurd had talked you into going, pointing out that every other weekend this month had been doing things that you wanted.

Since he’d attended that wedding with you last weekend, this was the least you could do to make it up to him. Despite your disdain for the “holiday” - if one could call Halloween a holiday.

“Next group.” You heard the monster at the door call behind you.

Almost halfway through, you rolled your eyes when the lady in front of you screamed and jumped out of the way of a plastic skeleton. It fell from the ceiling when somebody passed and triggered the motion sensor. You had spotted the blinking red light the second you’d walked into the corridor.

Behind you Sigurd giggled and tightened his grip on your hand. Quickly you began to see why his brothers didn’t want to join him, in this excursion. Poorly put together haunted houses were Sigurd’s thing and his alone.

“Hey,” Sigurd leaned closer to you, shuffling slowly along behind the four strangers in your group. “Hold on a second.” He grasped your hand, holding you back.

“What is it?” You lean back and ask over your shoulder.

“When they turn into the next room, go left.” he whispered the instructions.

“Why?”

“Because.” You could hear the grin in his voice.

“Sigurd.” You can hear yourself about to speak to him like a child. “I know what you’re thinking and no.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking,” Sigurd replies haughtily, his hands on your hips trying to guide you to the left.

“I’m not sneaking in there to have sex!” You hiss and brace when he abruptly turns you to the left, a black gauze hanging over what looks like a wall.

Bracing, you flinch when the mischievous redhead pushes you through the black haze, to your surprise you come out the other side and don’t smack into any barriers. Opening your eyes, you hadn’t realized they were clenched shut.

“See.” Sigurd proudly boasts.

“See what?” You stand facing him and sigh. The room is a standard run of the mill farm office type. Sigurd spins you around and points, under the work bench.

“I saw that dog come in here earlier, I don’t know how you missed it.” He acts as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She was carrying that one with her.” Sigurd points to the brown spotted puppy in the litter.

“That one?” You can’t contain yourself, you bend down and observe the litter of furry babies.

“Yep, his name is Hal and Hal is coming home with us.”


	5. Squash That!

Something about this time of year made Ivar extra annoyed, the gorgeous summer days grew shorter, the weather colder, and the people somehow needier. On the other hand, this was the time of year when the food became more flavourful and the dinners merrier.

There was something about crowding around in the dinning room, eating far too many carbs, while the smell of Hvitserk’s pies baking taunted the diners from the kitchen.

Today his older brother was experimenting with a cran-cherry-apple pie. Ivar wasn’t a fan of pies, but it did sound tempting. Sitting next to you at the table, Ivar watched as each dish began to make the rounds.

It would start with his father, move to the left, finally reaching you and Ivar midway.

“Can they hurry up.” Ivar mutters, leaning a little so you could hear his complaints.

“Patience.” You squeeze his hand and kiss his cheek.

“I’m starving.” Ivar grumbles.

“I told you to eat breakfast.” You reply in an attempt to shut this down. Picking up your glass of Sigurd’s homemade cider, you practically choke at Ivar’s next statement.

“Sorry, but I had better things to eat.” He smirks. The little shit! There had been plenty of time after that, yet Ivar insisted on keeping room for dinner.

Across the table, Ubbe led the conversation, talking about the weather and everybody’s plans for Halloween. Hvitserk was yet again planning a party, which prompted Bjorn is jump in with questions about their matching costumes.

They were going to be Pirates this year. A nice way to recycle some of last year’s Viking costumes.

Next to you, Ivar rolls his beautiful blue eyes. Halloween and Pirates could wait.

“Mom,” Ivar spoke up, gathering Aslaug’s attention. “Can you tell Hvitserk not to hog all of that.” He pointed to his brother, Hvitserk glared at Ivar and spitefully slapped another spoonful of squash onto his plate.

“Aren’t you two a little old to involve me?” Aslaug ignored her sons.

“There’s more squash, chill out.” Hvitserk happily replied plopping another spoonful on his plate.

There were two more people at the table before the bowl would reach you and then Ivar. To keep him from sulking for the next week, you’d graciously pass on Lagertha’s squash and allow the pouting Ivar to get his way.

“You’re such a dick. Come on!” Ivar shifted antsy in his seat. “Hvitserk.” He growled.

“Calm down.” Your hand on his, you smile sweetly at him.

You’d had never met somebody so obsessed with squash. Chances were nobody had ever met somebody that obsessed with squash. Not any old squash Ivar would often remind. No this was squash grown and cooked by his father’s ex-wife.

Whatever Lagertha did to the squash was something short of magic, the way Ivar raved. Ironic, in a way, seeing as he had very little nice things to say about the blonde woman across the table.

“Ivar,” Lagertha called his attention. “Leave Hvitserk alone, there is no need to fight. I brought more than enough squash to feed you for the next six months.”

“In that case,” Ivar sighed settling in, happy to pass the peas, but not without his five year old side sticking his tongue out at Hvitserk first.


End file.
